


The Bus is Late

by Magichorse



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Songfic, Weather, Where the bus at?, pre-wtnv, why the bus so late?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magichorse/pseuds/Magichorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos waits at a bus stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bus is Late

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't, you need to reacquaint yourself with Episode 2's weather, 'The Bus is Late' by Satellite High.

Carlos tugs the sleeves of his lab coat down and shrugs it tighter about himself. Light precipitation drifts from the sky. He is covered in a fine mist, his skin damp, and lungs cool. He rubs at his glasses periodically as they fog.

Where is the bus?

He places a hand on his shoulder bag to make sure the rain isn’t seeping through to his students’ papers. 

Still Safe.

Why is the bus so late? He exhales and watches the mist swirl.

He thinks about buses and how scientific they are, and he thinks about schedules and how scientific _they_ are. He chances exposing his phone to the weather to take a few photos of buses passing in the other direction. For later.

Where is the bus now?

His hair is starting to frizz. He glances at the hooded figures around him, dry and anonymous in their deep rain coats. He checks his watch, says aloud: “The bus is late.”

“Time is weird,” answers a man who Carlos had not noticed before, cryptically. Carlos thinks about that for a minute before repeating the phrase back as a question.

“Time is weird?”

“It is,” says the man firmly as Carlos turns to him, “Like, you do the same job, even a job you love, for a long time and what do years and decades really mean then, stretching seamlessly backwards and forwards?”

“Oh, that’s very philosophical,” says Carlos politely, though not without appreciation. “And oh, good, here comes the bus.”

But as it approaches he sees it’s a 77A and not a 114. He swears under his breath. “Not the right bus.”

“Every bus is the right bus for someone,” says the philosophical stranger brightly, and Carlos smiles.

“I guess you’re right. It’s just so wet, I feel I should be waiting for the bus with a mop!”

They both laugh at the scientific accuracy of that joke. Carlos doesn't think he has ever heard a richer laugh.

“I’m Carlos,” he offers, and extends a hand to the stranger who takes it between two cool palms.

“It’s been a pleasure, Carlos,” says the man as he turns smoothly to board a bus the scientist had not seen arrive, and would not, even though he would search in the months ahead, ever see again in Los Angeles. “Until next time.”

“Next time?” he asks.

“Time is weird” is the only answer he gets. And then the doors close.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had such writer's block. I just needed to write and this happened.


End file.
